


Clasp me in your handkerchief

by Quaxoo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Chapter 365, Gen, M/M, Omiatsuhina foreshadowing, Pre-Slash, Pre-Time Skip, but blink and you’ll miss it, sakuatsuhina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quaxoo/pseuds/Quaxoo
Summary: I tell you how I hate disease, it’s like worrying that comes true, and it simply must not be able to happen in the world where you are possible. - F. O’HaraSakusa stares at the boy across the Gymnasium hall during his short break between the second and the third set. The boy stares back.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi & Hinata Shouyou, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Hinata Shouyou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 90





	Clasp me in your handkerchief

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, so please correct me if you spot any errors. Write me on tumblr (https://fonmythenmetz.tumblr.com) or twt (https://mobile.twitter.com/Quaxo14) I’ll be happy to scream about omiatsuhina or kinkunikage or smth. My friends don’t watch hq so I’ve been simmering in skatshn rare pair hell since February all alone :___) So happy there’s more content about them now. Thank you people.

It’s only after the siren when Sakusa catches up with how cold the air actually is. He blinks, clouds of steam literally visible before his eyes when he exhales into the frozen cosmos of Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium. There’s nasty heaviness creeping up his legs when they step out of the court to change sides.  
  
\- I can’t believe I missed the last one, - Komori says. - I thought number seven was coming from the left, you know, they used to do it in the first half.

Wrong, Sakusa could say, their middle was wide open. It looked like they were going for a quick set from the middle. A perfect quick set from their wide open middle. But Inubushi’s setter was apparently an alien or an asshole for setting to the most uncomfortable place. If Miya Atsumu was watching, Sakusa thought, he would start crying. He would furrow his stupid eyebrows and would cry until the third set begins.

\- Do you think I have time to cry a bit until the third set begins? - Komori asks. His voice comes from a cloud of hot steam that surrounds his body, shining pearlescent under the icy spotlights of grand arena. Suddenly he stops talking as if the cold air has finally gotten into his body and has frozen his flaming insides. Sakusa follows his gaze.

There’s a tiny figurine sprawled on the floor of the closest court. It looks foreign, like a bee in an expensive sterile honey jar, or a defeated chessman. It looks like it must be immediately removed from the chessboard. Athletes gather in circles around it. They are all standing tall and reaching out with their hands, making the difference in size frighteningly obvious. Sakusa can’t see anything apart from patches of orange, flares of orange, glints of orange from behind their legs.

\- It must be their number ten, - Komori muses. - The one with the freak quick. Looks like he’s out for today?

Nodding ever so slightly, Sakusa walks back to his position and waits for the defeated chessman to be removed, like the whole arena waits for it to be removed, soaking the ice-cold air in pitiful whispers that make him sick to his stomach. Your pity and compassion has nothing to do with volleyball, he could say. If you don’t take proper care of your body, you lose. Simple as that. Number ten doesn’t get it, clinging to the bench with his white white fingers, white from effort, white from fear, white from fever. Everyone must pity him now. At the same time everyone wants him removed and the game to continue already, just like kids want a bee out of the expensive honey jar and to sink the feelings of uneasiness and pity in familiar sweetness.

There’s nothing about volleyball left in the number ten. He’s the defeated chessman carrying no strategic power. He must understand it and leave. He leaves.

It’s not the first time Sakusa sees someone get injured or sick on the court. As usual, he watches the number ten turn away from the net, eyes searching and wild and scared, as he is accompanied to the entrance. He still doesn’t know why he is not with the team, like being a volleyball player was his only identity, and now having lost it he wonders why his body is still able to move. Every time he meets someone’s gaze poisoned with pity, he gives in to the coldness of the arena.

By the moment he passes the court where Itachiyama versus Inubushi Hizashi match is about to begin droplets of sweat on his jaw and tears on his cheekbones are pure frost. He bumps into Sakusa’s eyes and nearly stumbles over his own feet.

Intensity of his gaze is overwhelming. “Don’t look at me”, - Sakusa can practically hear him say. - “Stop staring.”

\- He’s _looking_ at you, - Komori whispers in confusion and unease, placing a soothing hand on Sakusa’s shoulder. Sakusa does not look away, though.

When he doesn’t comply, the number ten widens his feverish eyes in surprise, hoarfrost on his eyelashes melting from anger that overtakes him and streaming down his marbled face. Fingers in fists, knuckles white from fever, white from fear, white from effort. He stops. Sakusa tries to look away but it’s impossible. There’s a scene of biblical importance unfolding before his eyes, right in the eyes across the frozen Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium hall, or maybe it’s only real inside their odd accidental connection which is all absolute bullshit Sakusa will never believe in.

“It’s only my starting line,” - he can read clearly in the eyes across the hall, like their minds never existed separately, like four hours in a stuffy country train and a stupid fever was all it took to establish the most powerful wireless connection between two individuals. The eyes say: - “I’ll learn, I’ll be so much better. You’ll see. You’ll be so scared.”

Deep down, Sakusa discovers that’s he’s thrilled to see... this. He’s always admired people who are already good at what they’re doing, but this - this is so different. The unripe desire and dedication to grow, to improve, to learn how to do the things right just for the sake of it, just for always playing at his best and being satisfied with it.

Now that he’s addressed and challenged with all this, he is nearly fluttered. I’d want to see what you’ll become, he thinks. I’d want to see you grow.

Thus, he does not put on a mask of an arrogant national team player, and he does not acknowledge this as a challenge. He looks back as calmly as he can muster. “Yes, do that”, - he’s trying to say. It’s absolutely sincere, for once. And apparently it is a mistake: the number ten visibly trembles, heart scared and pounding so hard it shakes though his small body like earthquake tremors, and he looks ready to rush forward to him, or rush forward to bite him. He clearly can’t decide if he’s angry or relieved. Eventually his mouth softens, and there’s half-melted ice on the verge of his eyelids. It thaws and runs down his cheekbones, tenderly painting the contours of his face in golden stripes. He sobs like a normal child. That’s exactly what he is now, and Sakusa should quit calling him ‘Number Ten’ in his head, because at the moment he’s completely stripped of his volleyball identity.

He’s also stripped of his partner’s support and left with one bitter rivalry. He sobs again. He’s a bee freshly removed from an expensive honey jar.

Sakusa picks it up and gently holds in the palm of his hand. He opens a window and leaves the bee on the sill, because he can respect effort. It’ll fly again when the honey is drained.

There’s a boy on the sideline of Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium. He’s clad in honey orange from had to toe. He has a fever. He also has the face that Sakusa has never seen in the Monthly Volleyball. In the eight seconds that it takes him to reach the exit, he discovers the boundaries of his little world and the boundaries of his little body and promises to expand them. He holds onto Sakusa’s gaze in the process like he is physically incapable of moving without its support.

The doors open. The boy looks away, then looks up at the balcony. There’s something that makes him turn abruptly and rush outside. The doors close.

Sakusa exhales, finally letting out hot air into the frozen cosmos of the Gymnasium. His chest feels unbearably tight for no reason. Maybe there was a draught, he tells himself. Good thing the doors are closed now.

\- What was his name again? - Sakusa asks. While Komori is struggling to remember the combination of four simple kanji, he looks up at the balcony. There’s Miya Atsumu, laughing joyously beside his teammates, bleached hair glistening like honey under the icy spotlights. His knuckles are gripping the railing so hard they‘ve gone white.


End file.
